Headlights

Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep beep.

Graham squinted at the darkness of his bedroom ceiling with a vague grunt at the rude awakening. Yawning through the remnants of his sleep, he raised his hips and arched his back—a stiff stretch. What time was it? He glanced at the curtain drawn over his window. No sunlight. Who the hell was calling him at this hour?

Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep beep.

He rolled over with a groan, ignoring the dull ache in his knee as he reached for his bedside table. His fingers fumbled over pill bottles, a book, his reading glasses – then the cold metal of his caseless phone. The screen lit up, bright light shooting over his ceiling. He winced. Christ Almighty. Was that damn thing always so bright?

3.24 AM.

Perfect.

He squinted at the screen.

Incoming Call: Kit

They never called him, let alone in the middle of the night. What the hell did they want?

~~~

To say Graham was elated not to be a father was an understatement. Sure, it was a solitary life, living alone at his age, but he figured some men weren’t built for fatherhood. He was one of them. He’d have frustrated his kid too much, and vice versa. His house would’ve been filled with slamming doors and stomping footsteps, like his own childhood home had been. Graham was sure that his parenting would’ve followed his father’s heavy-handed breadcrumb trail. There was no escaping that kind of pollution. The glimpses he got into his brother’s short-tempered home life were exemplary proof.

He’d made peace with solitude. Better to be alone. His flat was his own. His time was his own. He could wake when he wanted, spend money how he wanted. No school runs. No weekend soccer matches. No ballet recitals. No helping anyone with homework, or teaching someone how to brush their teeth. The only messes he had to clean up were his own. His life was more straightforward. It was quiet. Private.

Not being a father suited him more.

And yet, here he was.

The car rumbled beneath him as he pulled over, his prosthetic pressing into his knee as he braked. His fingers twitched on the wheel. He was in some residential neighbourhood that he didn’t care to check the name of twice. It was still nighttime, very late, but there were no stars out, thanks to some modern mix of light pollution and cloud cover. Other than his headlights and a flickering streetlight on the other side of the road, the only light source was the blaring multicoloured light coming from the house he parked besides. Music pounded through the walls. He could feel it vibrating through his car despite the distance of the lawn, making his cold dog tags tremble on his chest. Some techno rubbish. Too much bass. Not enough guitars.

He supposed that was kids these days.

He sighed to himself, running one hand over the scruff on his jaw as he used the other to retrieve his phone from the cupholder. He squinted at the screen momentarily before typing with a slow forefinger.

To: Kit

‘Outside.’

He dropped his phone back in its place and sat in his car for a long moment, swiping his thumbs under his eyes with a sharp inhale as if to wake himself up more.

He was no father. But he was an uncle.

And even if he missed out on most of the troubles of fatherhood, he still had to play happy families sometimes, and Kit seemed intent on making tonight one of those times.

The front door swung open, and the music surged for a brief, unbearable moment. A familiar head of dyed hair emerged, meandering across the paving stones with no real direction. Kit’s clothes were nearly as loud as the house behind them, clashing patterns and neon stitching. Not for the first time, they reminded him of a small kid growing into a spider’s body — all limbs. When that streetlight flickered, Graham could see the shine of sweat on their reddened cheeks glistening over acne scars.

With yet another sigh, Graham leant over the gearstick to open the passenger door.

Kit raised their head at the sound and froze, hesitating. A red heat climbed up their neck, tinting their cheeks. 

“Hey, Uncle Graham,” they began awkwardly, a little slurred and mumbly.

“Just get in,” he muttered.

Wordlessly, Kit obeyed, collapsing into the passenger seat. Long-forgotten trash crumpled under their feet. As they pulled the door shut, the music finally muffled. In its place, a thick wave of cheap cider and sugary mixers filled the space between them.

“Seatbelt,” Graham instructed gruffly before turning the car back on, glancing into the rearview and pulling back onto the road.

A quiet click followed as the belt slid into place. In his peripherals, he saw Kit pulling their knees up to their chest, their ankles resting on the edge of the seat. They let out a hiccup.

Jesus Christ.

“How much have you had to drink?” he asked, more concerned for his car’s interior than for Kit’s well-being.

“Nothing.”

“Kit.”

A pause. Then, quieter, “I lost count.”

Graham let out a heavy sigh - evidently a common occurrence this evening. He wondered if he should draw up a tally chart. He then remembered that it wasn’t even evening anymore — it was morning — and his annoyance only grew tenfold.

There’d been a time when Graham would’ve been right in Kit’s shoes: partying through the night, sleep entirely optional. But that was before time had become a heavy weight on his wrist, and when his body had still worked how he wanted it to. No, those days were long gone.

After a few moments of silence, he cut Kit a glance. They weren’t looking at him. Instead, they were fixated on their socks, fiddling with clumsy fingers so they sat evenly above their ankle bones. 

“Your dad’s not gonna be happy.”

“Oh, he won’t know,” Kit mumbled to their socks.

“You’re a shit liar, Kit, you think you can act sober?”

“No — I’m not going home.”

Graham’s eyebrows raised. “Excuse me?”

“I’m going home with you,” they said slowly, their brow creased as though they’d figured he knew that was part of the deal.

Graham ran his tongue over his teeth, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. He forced himself to look back at the road, primarily to avoid crashing the car from the persisting irritation he felt every time he looked at Kit.

“Absolutely not. I’m taking you home.”

Kit let out a vague whimpery noise of something akin to betrayal.

“No, please, Uncle Graham! Dad — he’ll be really mad.”

Graham’s shoulders tensed a little. He paused, faltering. And then Kit babbled on.

“I… I told him I was sleeping over at a friend’s — he didn’t even know there was a party! Please, please, please, he’ll be really mad!”

“Sounds like the consequences of your actions, kid,” he muttered, his resolve hardening.

They let out another little whimper, and he watched in his peripherals again as they shrunk into their seat, hugging their knees and resting their head on the window beside them. They sniffed. Graham ignored the pang in his chest.

In his eyes, the fact of the matter was that he knew Kit by heart. They’d been the first baby he’d ever held in his arms, hands cradling their tiny body, heart in his throat for fear of dropping them. And he’d known them ever since. He’d been there when they’d cried for half an hour straight, aged nine, after accidentally stepping on their stuffed fox’s ear. He’d met Kit’s first boyfriend two years ago, some greasy guy in a band with wandering hands, whom Kit had declared love for after three weeks. He’d watched them well up over the ending of Paddington 2, the fifth time they watched it — last week. Every time a door slammed or their father raised his voice, Graham caught the way they flinched.

All this to say, he knew that Kit was sensitive. And, sometimes, Graham figured they needed to toughen up a bit. He was just helping them do that.

It was hard sometimes with Kit. They didn’t respond well to being told what to do if they didn’t like the instruction. Trying to control Kit was like catching dust particles in the sun; the more you stick your hand in there, the more frantically they evade you. But Graham thought this time might work.

“It’s for your own good,” he told them after another long silence.

They didn’t respond.

When he glanced over again, ready to continue, their eyes were shut. Their breathing had evened out.

Asleep.

Another sigh.

This was why he wasn’t a father — this bullshit. Effectively, Kit was using him like a taxi service, waking him up in the middle of the night, expecting him to bring them home, and now falling asleep in his car. They hadn’t even uttered a thank you.

~~~

Silence stretched on as Graham drove through the empty countryside. He didn’t like silence. It wasn’t good for his tinnitus. He wanted to turn the radio on, but he didn’t want to wake Kit. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to tolerate their conscious company, not in this state.

So, silence it was. Graham drove through sleeping neighbourhoods, the only sound the gentle rumbling of the car beneath him and Kit’s slightly laboured breath at his side. His fingers drummed on the steering wheel occasionally, giving him another noise to focus on.

He spared Kit’s sleeping figure a few glances as he drove. Despite their seeming peace, he shook his head at them every time, as though it might make them dream about his disapproval.

 The more he watched them, the more opportunity he had to assess. Their makeup was messy. They’d always liked to experiment with various products that Graham couldn’t even begin to guess the name of, and tonight was no different. Their closed eyelids were painted a bright shade of pink, with some kind of black lines squiggling around the colour. Graham thought that might’ve been eyeliner. Their lips were the same shade of black, or at least had been, but they’d smudged a lot, revealing the cracked pink skin underneath. In fact, the more Graham looked, the more he realised that it all seemed to be coming off slightly.

The pink and black had seemingly begun to run in rivers down their cheeks, like someone had pointed a hairdryer at a watercolour painting. Graham found himself frowning at the shape of said rivers. Maybe that sheen he’d seen on their cheeks earlier hadn’t been sweat.

He glanced back at the road.

“Shit!”

 Brakes screeched. The car jolted, sending both of them into their seatbelts. He fought the urge to hiss through his teeth at the feeling of his prosthetic shoving into the healed blisters on his knee, fire blooming up his leg. He had something else to focus on.

On the road ahead, a fox crouched in the headlights. Wide, unblinking eyes reflected the beam.

He was suddenly very aware of his heartbeat as he watched the scared little creature bolt into the undergrowth.

“What was that?” Kit’s small voice asked from the passenger seat.

Graham looked at them.

Wide and unblinking eyes stared back at him. Their bottom lip was quivering. Graham recalled a stuffed fox with a squashed ear. There was that panging in his chest again — for a kid in a house with slamming doors and loud voices. A lump formed in his throat.

Was the kid in his mind’s eye Kit or himself?

Did it matter?

He let out another sigh — shakier this time.

“Nothing, kid. Don’t worry about it,” he muttered in reassurance, running a hand down his weary face.

Kit sniffed. They didn’t press, just sunk back into their seat.

There was quiet in the unmoving car for a moment, and Graham glanced back at the empty road. Absent. Like nothing had ever been there.

“Kit?” he asked, not looking at them.

“Mhm?”

“Did you want to crash at my place for the night?” he finally looked over.

They blinked at him owlishly.

“Really?”

He nodded.

“And you won’t tell dad?” Kit checked. 

Graham swallowed, shifting the car into drive. “We’ll see,” he settled on.

A long pause. He glanced over to see a slight smile on their face. Small and tired, but there.

“Thank you,”